


Sins and Sensibility

by Conduitstreetcat, Flightless_Bird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feelings, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 09:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conduitstreetcat/pseuds/Conduitstreetcat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flightless_Bird/pseuds/Flightless_Bird
Summary: Two years after the Reichenbach Fall, Jim comes home, to discover that Sebastian had coped less well with his death than expected. Sebastian is shocked to find out exactly why Jim had stayed dead to him for so long.





	Sins and Sensibility

Sebastian wakes, sitting bolt upright in bed. A nightmare. Again. Of course. Black eyes staring lifelessly up into the sky. Blood pooling around the slicked black hair. It's been the same for two years.

His head pounds. He doesn't get hangovers any more, as such, just is in a permanent state of either inebriation or dullness. Not that it works. He still gets the nightmares every other night; his days are still... black and white.

 

_He stands outside the door, just...looking. The dark night chills him and he sticks his hands into his coat pockets. He doesn’t know why he’s taking this long. He could just walk in, he supposes. But something feels off, a tension in the air like electricity that makes him pause. It’s been too long. Besides, walking in would ruin the shock of it; the image of Sebastian answering the door to Jim Moriarty on his doorstep is too great an opportunity to pass up for the consulting criminal. He reaches out to knock, falters, smooths his hair back. God he’s being an idiot, he just needs to do it._

He looks at his phone. 3:30. He supposes he _could_ have another whisky and try to get back to sleep. He needs a fag, first of all, to ease his pounding heart. _You always were the sentimental type, Sebbie._ Fuck. Get out of my head, boss. You're dead. You shot yourself in the fucking head to win some ridiculous game. Was it worth it? Was knowing that Holmes would jump worth it? I could have shot him, you know. Would have done, if I had had any idea what you were planning. Should have done. You'd have been furious, would have killed me. Would have been so much better.

 

_He wonders which will happen first: Sebastian asking him where he’s been or skipping straight to punching Jim in the face. He honestly wouldn’t be surprised. It’s been a while since he’s felt something painful. He remembers his head meeting the rooftop, cracking against it to make it look believable. That had hurt, but in a good way; in a finger-pulling-the-trigger way, when he saw the look on Sherlock’s face just before he fell. But it hadn’t hurt like the waiting did. Waiting to come home. That had ached in his chest like hell and it infuriates him. He wants his tiger back. Swallowing his pride, he finally lifts his hand and knocks._

Who the fuck? Shit, he must have screamed in his sleep again, woken up the neighbours. He sighs, gets up, pulls on some trousers. He'll apologize, then have a whisky and another fag. Try to dull his brain enough to get back to sleep, without seeing that red blood. They'd seen so much red blood together. Others', each other's. It had almost been a game, a laugh. Dodging death together. Came damn close, a couple of times. But he'd never have expected that Jim would actually go and seek death out. Turned out the psychiatrists he had always scoffed at had been right. He had been insane. Too bad you killed four people on that roof that day, boss. Stop brooding, Moran. Go talk to the neighbours.

 

_He can hear the footsteps inside and his heartbeat skitters in his chest. Dammit, look at him. He’s behaving idiotically and it irritates him. It had always been that way though. It had been exhilarating. Gunfire and helicopter blades, mad laughter and bloody fistfights. The spider and his tiger. They were a match like sin and suffering and they dealt it out in equal measure to anybody who stood against them. Jim thinks that he misses that most of all. He misses killing and blood and adrenaline; the adrenaline of a gunfight, or the adrenaline of Moran at his back while they face down numbers of criminals. Even outnumbered, they wreaked havoc. Jim shifts his weight to his other foot, waiting impatiently for the door to open. He could have all that back. If Sebastian wants him back, that is._

He opens the door, the prepared apology dying on his lips. Fuck. He's still dreaming. He hates these dreams, they make him feel so happy and hopeful, and waking up only hurts so much more. At least he's aware he's dreaming. He sighs, pinches himself. It hurts. What?! That's how you tell the difference between a dream and reality. Pinching doesn't hurt in a dream. He's not dreaming? Shit. He has gone insane then. Finally. It makes sense, really. There would only be so much pain and drink and drugs you could take before reality started to look a bit weird. He squeezes his eyes closed, shakes his head. Opens them again. Still looks like Jim. Not even Jim as he used to look. There are some more wrinkles. The bags under the eyes a bit deeper. Those eyes. The...

Everything goes black. His legs give out, and he hits the floor, out cold.

 

_Jim opens his mouth to say some snarky entrance line—and Sebastian crumples. For a second, he just stares. .....well, fuck. He knew he might have been missed, but damn. Leaning in a bit, he glances around the inside of the room. Then he looks back down at Sebastian. Heaving a sigh, he starts to bend to help him up. He’s fucking heavy too, sagging as Jim slings his arms under Sebastian’s to heave him up. “Goddammit, Moran,” he mutters, awkwardly dragging his sniper back through the door. “I should’ve stayed dead.” He finds a couch in the darkened living room and manages to get Sebastian up onto it. His arm flips off the side and Jim nudges it up again, reaches out instinctually to smooth back his hair. Then he realizes what he’s doing and snatches his hand back._

Sebastian feels the arm of the sofa pressing into his back. He's fallen asleep on the couch again. He groans, opens his eyes.

What. The. Fuck.

He jumps back involuntarily, his heart beating, his hand stretching out in front of him. "What the fuck!? What the fuck!?" Not his best lines, he has to admit, but he can't seem to find any other words. "Jim!?"

He has to know. He reaches out, touches the other man's arm. It's there. It's solid. It's... it's definitely Jim. No one else could look that annoyed. "You... you shot yourself. I saw it. Through my scope. They took your body away. I... there wasn't even a funeral. You... what the _FUCK_!?"

 

_Jim watches the scene unfold with a look of casual indifference. A smile is threatening his lips, but he can’t help it. Despite the circumstances, it feels damn good to be back, to see his hitman. Even if he is currently having an aneurism over seeing his dead boss._

_“It was a blank, Seb,” he states, once Sebastian has calmed enough to let him speak. He grimaces at the memory. “Felt like hell when it hit my mouth, but it wasn’t a bullet. Blood wasn’t fake, but it wasn’t mine either,” he adds with a hint of mad cheer. “And if I had a funeral, the only people who’d show up are apparently you and anyone who wanted to finally have the chance to spit on my grave. Bastards,” he mutters with dark satisfaction. “Thought about scaring the shit out of Holmes—you know he fucking faked it too?—but I had to see my favourite sniper first.” Okay maybe teasing isn’t the best idea right now but he can’t resist. Part of him hopes foolishly that they can go right back to how they were. Or something better. But he isn’t acknowledging that part of himself just yet._

 

This... is too much for his sleep- deprived and fuzzy brain. Jim... faked his death? _Holmes_ faked his death?! "I... I saw Holmes jump. I was watching Watson, as you told me, I saw him run to the corpse, he was on the ground, broken, the blood... " Why on earth is he babbling about Holmes!? "You... fucking _faked your death_!? And you didn't _TELL_ me!? What the _FUCK_ , Jim!? Why... You could have told me! I'm your fucking _right hand_!! What were you _thinking_!?!" His voice is quite loud now, he doesn't care. "Two _years_!!! Two years you let me believe you were dead! You... must have known. Must have known I... " No. He won't say this. He'd said it to dead Jim. To his picture on his phone, since he didn't even have a grave to go to. He won't say it to this... monster, who let him live in hell for two years. He looks at Moriarty, disbelief in his eyes. "You... fucking... _bastard_." He punches him in the mouth, hard.

_Jim shrugs. “I’m not sure how he pulled it off either, which disgusts me,” he deadpans. It really does. He’d kill to figure out how Holmes managed it. But then Sebastian’s yelling at him, and not the annoyed yelling he gets when a mission is too close a call. This is unbridled anger, tangled up with something else, something almost softer; Jim bristles at first, about to snap back—he’s the head of a criminal empire, dammit—but he pauses when he hears Sebastian’s voice quiet slightly. “Must have known I....” He’s trailed off and Jim feels like a fool for clinging to the end of the sentence that never comes._

_And then Sebastian punches him in the face._

_“Ow! Shit!” Fire blooms across his face and he rubs his jaw, miffed. He scowls at Sebastian. “It was just a part of the game, god, I was only thinking of what came next! If I came back right away, there was the chance Holmes would catch me. I mean, god, Seb, I’m a fucking psychopathic criminal. I didn’t—“ He shifts his glare down to his shoes, almost ashamed. “I didn’t think you’d miss me.”_

Sebastian feels himself get more and more furious. A _game_!? Only thinking of what came next?

He pulls his arm back for another punch when he hears the last phrase, which freezes him. "Didn't... didn't think I'd _miss_ you!? What the _fuck_ , Jim?! I... I would have _died_ for you! That was _literally_ my job! And you... you didn't think to _tell_ me what you were planning!? I could have _helped_! Fuck, I _did_ help! You borrowed _my fucking gun_! For two years, every time I closed my eyes I kept seeing myself handing over my fucking handgun to you in the car underway to that _fucking_ hospital, remembering you used it to blow your brains out! Telling myself it was my fault, I should have known, I could have done something... Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

 

_Jim feels something boiling up in him and he knows that it’s irrational, because dammit, Sebastian has a point, but he doesn’t care. He’s fucking angry. He’s been “dead” for two years, waiting to come back, feeling like shit, and now it’s being thrown back in his face. “What would you have done, then, huh?” he demands sharply. “Try to reason with me? Try to fucking save me? I wanted to die!”_

_His eyes sting with the confession out in the room, shattered like cracked glass, but no tears escape because he is James fucking Moriarty and this is. Not. Him. “I took that gun with full intentions of ending everything on that rooftop,” he growls. “It wasn’t until I was halfway up the stairs that I changed my mind— to save it for another day. I decided didn’t want to die in front of Sherlock Holmes. But I wanted it. Every month for two years, I sat in some wretched hotel room with a gun in my hand, and I wanted it. But I couldn’t. I tried to kill myself for two fucking years and I couldn’t! But during that time, there was no way I would risk contacting anybody who might get in the way of it, if I changed my mind, if I pulled the trigger.” He threw his hands up angrily, half at the situation, half at himself. “So, no, I didn’t tell you—because it would have been your job to stop me from taking a bullet in my mouth and I didn’t know if I wanted you to!”_

 

Sebastian is frozen. He realizes his mouth is hanging open. Jim? He'd... Jim!? Suicidal? But... how? Why? But...

"Damn right I would have stopped you! Whatever it would have taken! Why the fuck didn't you tell me!? I was your bodyguard! I'm supposed to protect you from _whatever_! I failed! I fucking failed as a bodyguard, as your second in command, as... _everything_ I was! _You_ wanted to shoot yourself?! Why?! You were not a failure! I sat with a gun pointed at my head every night for weeks, but all I could think of was that I didn't deserve to die, that it was the coward's way out, that you would have wanted me to keep your empire going, so I did, I fucking slaved away at it, and I hated it, I hated every second of it, because everything I did reminded me that you weren't there, that it was pointless, that I was holding on to something that meant _nothing_ without its king at its head. I... even failed at that. I did my best, but I'm not you. You're... no longer the most powerful man in London. Probably third. And there are contenders everywhere. I... I'm sorry, Jim. I failed you on _every_ level. I..." Fuck. He's started fucking crying.

 

_Jim grits his teeth at the words, every one like blade in his heart. He doesn’t know how to explain it, the why, the impossible why of his existence. The numbness. The crushing feeling of his own breaths in his lungs, too much pressure for his ribs to take, and his heart suffocated under it too. The nightmares. The blades, the scars he hides under tailored suits. “I don’t know!!” It explodes from him at Sebastian’s question like a gunshot. He drags his hands over his eyes and back through his hair. “I don’t fucking know,” he repeats, strangled. “It’s too much sometimes just....existing with this—thing in me.” He can’t name it, he doesn’t know if it even has a name. Depression seems pitifully small to encompass it. Then Sebastian continues and Jim’s eyes widen slightly. His second, his tiger did all of that for him, ran an entire empire and he...wanted to die? “Seb—“ And then Sebastian is crying and Jim is speechless for the first time in his life. People don’t cry in front of him, unless he’s causing it, unless they’re being tortured or at the bad end of a deal. People like Sebastian Moran do not cry in front of him, for him. For all of his intelligence, he doesn’t know what to do. Comfort isn’t something he’s familiar with. “Sebastian, you—“ His eyes drop away. “You didn’t fail me. You saw your job through to the end. I failed.” It tastes bitter in his mouth. “I was suicidal and I couldn’t face you for two years because of it. I could barely face myself.” He swallows hard. “I’m not supposed to feel this much,” he says quietly. It comes from his softer side, and he’s sure that’s it the first time in his life that he’s ever felt these words on his tongue: “I’m sorry.”_

 

Sebastian sits open-mouthed, again, blinking. He starts doubting again if this isn't a dream after all. Jim Moriarty alive. Jim Moriarty suicidal. Jim Moriarty saying sorry.

He's torn between wanting to punch him, kiss him, hold him close, so he does none of these things, just sits there. "Jim... " His voice breaks. Damn it. "Jim." That's better. "I... am so sorry. I had no idea. I should have... I should have paid more attention, should have realized. Fuck it, I lived with you. I never realized... I'm sorry." He shakes his head, trying to clear it. This is... it's all getting a bit much. He gets up, grabs the whisky bottle, two glasses, pours them both a stiff measure of the amber liquid, gives one glass to Jim, takes a sip of the other. Realizes his hand is shaking. He takes his cigarettes out of his pocket, lights one. Looks at Jim, remembers their postcoital habit. Holds out the cigarette for Jim to take. Jim who didn't smoke, so never bought cigarettes, and somehow always ended up stealing his.

He looks at his... boss, former boss, whatever, the dark circles under his eyes, the dark unreadable eyes, that he thought he'd known so well. Never realized what they hid. "So… why now? Why did you come back?" ... to me, he didn't say.

 

_He closes his eyes briefly at the sound of Sebastian’s voice forming his name again. He’s in disbelief and faint anger at the way he wants it, again and again. He shakes his head at Sebastian’s apologies—he doesn’t deserve them. Blinking at the offered glass, he takes it; their fingertips graze each other and it’s like static electricity. Jim refuses to acknowledge this. It’s impossible not to acknowledge Sebastian though, observe him, deduce him. If Jim didn’t know any better he’d say Sebastian was in l— No. definitely not. He’s reading... something wrong. He’s a psychopath, a killer. People don’t...look at him like that. Then he’s given a cigarette and it hits him like a punch to the gut. He takes it and hopes his hands aren’t shaking that badly. Shit, he wants to kiss him. He has to look away like a fool when Sebastian asks him the next question, almost embarrassed. Dammit, what is happening to him? “Got bored,” he answers, half-smile tugging at his mouth to let Seb know he’s only teasing. Then he sobers slightly. “Everything gets boring without you,” he mutters._

 

Sebastian had thought his heart had been torn apart beyond repair, beyond ability to feel anything anymore. It turns out this isn't the case. That face. That familiar, beloved face, showing the pain it had only just now confessed to. The pain that should have been obvious to him before, but which he had failed to recognize. The electric shock as their fingers touch - which must have been his imagination. That searching look, like Jim could see straight through him, could see everything he had done in the past two years, how he had failed to keep the empire going, had turned more and more to drink, to drugs, just to dull the pain, which people said healed with time, but which only appeared to grow heavier as the months went by. Then when Jim takes the cigarette, that small gesture of intimacy that reminds him so much of the many times they had shared a cigarette and a grin after a particularly good fight, kill, or shag. Jim. Jim had been his entire life, and he had lost him, and he'd died, it just wasn't visible from the outside. And now he's here. He's here, and despite it being dark in the living room, already the world has more colour, the air tastes sweeter. He chuckles. "Bored? Fuck, I've been _so_ bored, you won't believe it. It was worse than when I'd just been sent out of the army. At least then I hadn't had the time with you to measure everything against. Fuck. Jim."

 

_Sebastian’s talking again, and his voice is so much lighter; it fills up the room and swells in Jim’s chest. He grins now, the old devil-may-care grin that either means you are about to die or be pinned up against a wall in the best way. He wants to say things now: how he’s realized how empty life is without Sebastian, the way he missed him, not just him, everything about him. The way he smiles behind a loaded rifle, the way blood looks spattered across his clothes, his hair when Jim’s hands have been in it, his voice when he says his name. Jim stifles a delighted shiver at Sebastian’s last words, and suddenly, he can’t help it. He feels as though he’s standing on the roof again, at the very edge, only this time he would very much like to fall. He lifts dark eyes up to Sebastian’s face, looking at him from under his lashes, almost shy. “Say my name again,” he murmurs, pushing closer toward that edge, adrenaline already starting to sink into his veins._

 

He lights another cigarette. Let Jim enjoy his, but he definitely needs one himself. His hand is still shaking, though less. Jim is actually sitting there. On his chair. He has to suppress the urge to touch him again, to check if he is actually real. Jim. So many nights he had dreamed that this would happen - that it had all been a mistake, a misunderstanding; Jim would turn up and they'd act like nothing happened - or the nastier dreams, in which Jim would turn up with his head blown open, dripping blood on the carpet, not speaking, just looking with those big dark eyes.

He looks up into those eyes as Jim speaks. Fuck. That look. Jim. Oh god. Jim, the man who could kill with his eyes. He's never met anyone who has such an expressive face, which he uses to act any role he can think of, but the _eyes_ \- those eyes could speak volumes on their own, and Sebastian had got very good at reading them over the years. 'Watch him'. 'Get out.' 'Kill them.' 'Give me a cigarette.' And this one, he is pretty sure, used to mean 'Kiss me.'

"... Jim," he croaks, moving closer to Jim, keeping his eyes on him, being inexorably drawn closer, powerless to resist the magnetic power those dark eyes exude.

 

_Sebastian’s eyes are drinking him in like a drug and Jim revels in it. He would never admit it aloud, but he loves when Sebastian looks at him like that, like he’s something to be wanted. He knows that he could get almost anything he wants. With a few words, a heated glance, a touch. That’s why it’s so much better to know that, at least now, none of it is an act. Maybe none of it ever was. The thought enters his mind and almost makes his breath hitch. God. None of it ever was. The possibility of that lights him like a struck match and suddenly, he wants to be close, closer, walk over the edge. Sebastian’s shifting closer to him and Jim straightens instinctively. His eyelids droop when Sebastian says his name again, the syllable falling from his mouth like wine into a glass. Jim leans forward when Sebastian’s close enough and touches their foreheads together. It’s the first time they’ve touched in two years. It’s the simplest, most chaste of touches between them and yet it feels like flames are sweeping through his bloodstream. He gives in to that secret want and closes his eyes, lets himself become vulnerable. “‘bastian,” he breathes raggedly._

 

Oh god. They are touching. They are actually touching. He is real. Jim Moriarty is alive and he is real and he is here. Sebastian's focus, his consciousness, his entire being, is in his forehead, which is touching Jim Moriarty's. Electrical currents pulse through his skin, his skull, melt his brain. His heart is beating against his ribcage like it wants to jump out, into Jim's hands, where it belongs. His hands move of their own accord, his right one lands on Jim's knee, his left one on the back of Jim's head. He will never, ever let him go again. He can't think of anything to say except that name, that wonderful name, that had cut through him like a knife every time he'd spoken it over the past two years. "Jim..." No longer sharp, it tastes sweet, a delight to say, his tongue touching his palate, dancing off to let the vowel through, before both his lips close on the culmination of the cherished syllable.

 

_Jim almost jerks when Sebastian’s hand falls onto his knee, the other at the back of his head, in his hair. He doesn’t know what he wants to do more, lean back into Sebastian’s hand or further into him. He only knows that he needs more. He reaches up to brush his fingertips over Sebastian’s cheek, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. He’s so much more aware of the distance between them, his coat over his suit, every layer separating them from each other. His thumb slides down Sebastian’s cheek to his mouth and drags across his lower lip. “That’s why I could never pull the trigger,” he growls, a breath away from kissing. “I would think that there was nothing keeping me here anymore, and I’d pick up that gun and look down the barrel. And then you. My fucking sniper.” Closing his eyes, he tilts his head into Sebastian’s hand in his hair, aching._

 

Wait. What? Jim... had thought of him... and it had kept him from suicide? _him!?_ Jim didn't care about him. Never had. He always knew that - it didn't matter to him. Jim Moriarty was on another level, not on a par with normal mortals. Sebastian had always been delighted just to be with him, to be close to him, closer than anyone else ever got - it made him feel on top of the world. And Jim trusted him, because he was best at what he did - he could shoot stuff, yes, but he could plan, he could rework plans if circumstances changed, he could improvise, think for himself. And - well - the sex had just been great. But that's all it was. When Jim wanted, Jim took, and Seb had always been more than happy to give him whatever he wanted. He knew he was utterly devoted. But... the relationship had been like a deity and a priest. The devotion was one-sided, but it fulfilled his life. He'd always stayed on top of his game so he was useful to Jim, so he'd want to keep him around, knowing he'd be out on his arse the moment he started slacking.

He had never, ever, in his wildest dreams, imagined that Jim had actually felt... attachment to him.

_Sebastian is looking at him with this...emotion on playing across his face, something akin to disbelief, maybe confusion. Suddenly, Jim is hit with a wave of insecurity. Maybe this is too much, too much that he is letting spill out of himself. His hand falls rom Sebastian’s cheek, resting on his shoulder instead. He almost pulls away a bit more, but the fact that he is touching Sebastian at all in this moment keeps him close. Why is he so weak with him? Why, out of all of the people he’s come across, all over the world, is this one sniper of his the one that reels him in? “What?” he asks, a bit defensively, hating the vulnerability he’s showing. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”_

 

Sebastian realizes that he's been staring. "You're here." he murmurs. "You're here. And you care for me. I never..." fuck. He's going to start crying again if he doesn't.... He grabs Jim's hair, pulls him towards him, kisses him, hard. Oh god. He tastes of cigarette, of whisky, but most of all, of _Jim_. He realizes he hasn't kissed anyone for at least a year. He'd tried, after a couple of months, when he was climbing the walls, but it had only served to cruelly remind him of who was _not_ in his bed. He ended up beating the guy half to death in a drunken rage. Nothing after that. And now... Jim. No doubt about it. This was actual Jim. His right hand goes up, clasps around Jim's shoulders.

 

_Something old and instinctual in Jim rushes to deny it, but he knows he can’t. It’s written in his expression, his actions, the reason he came here in the first place. He wants to say something more, takes a breath—and Sebastian’s mouth is against his and stealing all his breath away. God, it’s been two years. Jim doesn’t even attempt to lie to himself, even with how hatefully pathetic it sounds: he hasn’t been with another person since Sebastian Moran. He could blame it partly on the suffocating depression, that made it impossible to even fathom leaving his bed on some days. But the rest of it... It was because no one would ever be this. Because no one else had ever gotten to him. He hums against Sebastian’s lips, bringing his hands up to cradle his jaw, keep him close. He kisses like fire, wolf and feral, and tastes like ashen alcohol, sin, and Sebastian. Jim can’t be close enough. He rakes a hand through Sebastian’s hair, reeling him in more, and catching his lower lip between his teeth._

 

For one moment Jim doesn't respond and Seb is petrified, thinks he's gone too far, has ruined it. Then he hums, grabs his jaw - oh god yes, this is how it was, how it used to be, the two of them together, a heated look, a sly remark, and they'd be on each other, usually half intoxicated with adrenaline, ignoring cuts, bruises, blood (usually other people's), on one memorable occasion even a bullet wound, in their hunger for each other, for release of the tension, and it used to be magnificent, a delirious celebration of life in the face of death. Then Jim catches his lip and bites and oh YES! that was Jim, predatory, ferocious Jim, and Sebastian moans at the ecstasy of feeling that again, of feeling _Jim_ again, his Jim. He grips him tighter.

 

_It’s everything they used to be, explosions and bullets, and drunken kisses, crashing together all at once. It sets Jim’s blood singing, a wave of exhilaration and something dangerously close to giddiness washing over him. Sebastian’s moan sends him crumbling, aching, and wanting. He curls his fingers in Sebastian’s hair enough to send a sting of pain, revelling in the feeling of it between his fingers. Sebastian holds him closer, tighter, and it’s so deliciously possessive it sends Jim’s heart ricocheting off his ribcage. A sinful grin curves his lips against Sebastian’s and he shifts even closer, practically purring._

 

Sebastian feels the tug on his hair, slightly painful, but it's _good_ , it's Jim, it's a physical sensation in a body that hasn't felt anything in two years. He moves his hands over Jim, over the rough cloth of his coat, trying to pull him closer. He feels Jim's mouth move, glances down, sees the grin, and oh god, that grin, he'd been dying to see that grin again, it's the grin that he wore on Seb's favourite picture of him, the one that he kept looking at on his phone, over and over, watching as the picture got blurry with the liquid filling his eyes. Jim shifts closer and suddenly the distance is too much. Sebastian half stands up, grabs Jim's lapels, pulls him off the chair and throws him on the sofa, then dives on top of him.

 

_Sebastian’s hands skate over the fabric of his coat and goddammit, this is too much. Why is this even still here?? Breaking their kiss and hating every second of space, Jim tears the coat from his shoulders and lets it crumple on the floor. He would’ve moved on to his suit jacket next, but then Sebastian has him by the front of it and is hauling him over. In the next instant, he’s on his back on the sofa, a very predatory Sebastian Moran on top of him. Jim can’t help it when his grin widens, showing a flash of teeth. He runs a hand up from Sebastian’s neck to tangle into his hair, the other curling on his neck. Tugging Sebastian down closer, almost playful, Jim smiles coyly up at him. “Tiger,” he growls, breathless, “I love it when you pin me down.”_

 

"You better enjoy it, because I am never going to let you go again," Sebastian growls, pulling at Jim's suit jacket, drawing him roughly upright to be able to pull it down his arms, then his shirt, god damn it, why is there a fucking _tie_ in the way?! pulls down the tie, pulls it over Jim's head, pulls the shirt open, buttons flying everywhere, pulls it out of the way, and there is _another_ layer, because _of course_ Jim is wearing a fucking _vest_ , what did he think Seb was going to do, invite him to the Four Seasons for dinner?! He digs his fists in the collar of the vest, tears the bloody thing in two, and _finally_ there is Jim's bare chest, and he falls onto it, skin to skin, heart to heart, beating heart, thank fuck, and he kisses Jim again, hungrily, desperately.

 

_Jim is yanked up off the couch, hands clawing at his clothes, and he can’t help it; he laughs, a hint of madness somewhere beneath the surface of the sound, and leans in to kiss at Sebastian’s jaw. He drags his lips back along Sebastian’s jaw as his shirt is literally torn off and pauses when he reaches his ear. “Impatient, honey?” he purrs, before grazing his teeth down Sebastian’s ear and neck. Then he’s chest to chest with him and fuck, Sebastian is so alive, heat radiating off of him and melting into Jim. A tiny ragged noise escapes him, the need for more of their skin together nearly crushing him. “Fuck,” he gasps against Sebastian’s mouth as he’s kissed again. He reaches around behind Sebastian and sweeps his hands up his back, running them over sleek muscle up to his shoulder blades. God, he feels so fucking real. Jim wants to drown in him, he wants to let Sebastian take him apart. He kisses him back roughly, nails biting into the space between Sebastian’s shoulders._

 

That rough kiss, those nails, he feels like he's shattering in a thousand pieces, all razor-sharp and cutting him into slivers - he's coming undone. The intensity of his emotions is overwhelming. Jim.

Jim is not dead. Jim is here, he can _feel_ him, _hear_ him, that laugh, that infectious laugh, heard so often in the most inappropriate situations, but impossible to ignore, often leading to them both being insensate with laughter in the middle of a bloodbath. That purr, oh god that purr, that purr could bring him to his knees, could make him shiver, in fact is making him shiver right now, and causes gooseflesh to break out all over his body. He kisses, his tongue pressing into Jim's mouth, needing to enter that body, that body which is warm, moving, inviting, _not dead_.

 

_He feels it when Sebastian shivers against him and it ignites something feral beneath his skin. He loves it, he absolutely loves when his sniper crumbles apart for him. He slides his palms down Sebastian’s shoulders and arms, feeling the gooseflesh awaken under his touch. It feels like heaven. Sebastian’s kissing him like the world is falling around them and he tastes like desperation, like pure white-hot emotion. Jim gives a weak little moan, his tongue finding Sebastian’s and making him dizzy. His left hand slips back up to Sebastian’s shoulder, the other finding his wrist, then his hand. Bold, he turns their hands over so that he can lace their fingers together._

 

That moan - that weak little moan, so unlike Jim, somehow makes him shatter even further. He feels like he will collapse on top of him, his arms nearly shaking with the effort of keeping him up, when Jim moves his hand to his wrist, then his hand. He is completely taken aback by the gesture, so sweet, so innocent, so... everything that is the opposite of James Moriarty. His heart wrenches, and he feels his hunger for Jim slide into something softer, more tender, his kiss turning less greedy, gentler, exploring Jim's mouth, licking his bottom lip, pressing soft kisses on his mouth, chin, jaw, neck.

 

_Sebastian is suddenly losing his edge, sinking into a slower, softer desperation. He’s kissing down Jim’s jaw, his neck, light as feathers. It’s utterly intoxicating and maddening at the same time._

_“‘bastian,” Jim whimpers, voice tangled with want and something unknown, something deep and dizzying. He tilts his head back, exposing his neck, baring himself to Sebastian in a way that makes him feel as though he’s handing himself over. Bringing their joined hands up to his mouth, he kisses each of Sebastian’s knuckles, mapping out old bruises and scars. When he reaches Sebastian’s pinky, he takes it between his teeth, meeting Sebastian’s eyes with his own, heatedly dark ones as he traces the skin with his tongue._

 

Oh god those eyes. Those eyes again. This look is new though. It's... definitely the bedroom look. But there's a vulnerability to it that never was there before. And god, that tongue on his pinky, Jim's tongue, argh, do you have to remind me of what your tongue can do Jim? because that will definitely lead to me grabbing you and tearing those trousers off you and I have the feeling that that now wouldn't be a good idea because there is something... significant in that look and I don't want to look away. Sebastian bends over their joined hands, kisses the back of Jim's hand, unable to tear his gaze away from Jim's. He needs to say... something. He doesn't know what. "Jim..."

 

_Jim doesn’t know what he’s seeing in Sebastian’s face, but it’s making his heart rate go haywire. He swallows as Sebastian leans over them, kissing the back of his hand and the small gesture almost breaks Jim’s heart with the aching simplicity of it. He can’t look away, not when Sebastian is looking at him like that, like he’s been missing a piece of himself for all of the two years they were apart. His attention is snagged by Sebastian’s voice around his name, something akin to hope stretching its wings painfully in his chest. “What?” he asks softly. His free hand cards through Sebastian’s hair to the back of his neck, fingers grazing an old scar there. “Tell me what you want, Tiger.” He strokes his thumb across the back of Sebastian’s hand in his. “I’ll give you anything.”_

 

He doesn't know what to say to that. How can he possibly think that there is anything else he wants? Anything else than James Moriarty, alive, breathing, laughing, speaking, like the intervening two years never happened? "You," he says, simply, honestly, looking into the fathomless depth of those two immense, black eyes. "For two years, all I wanted was for you to come back. I knew it was impossible. But I never wanted anything else. I stopped wanting when you... when you blew your brains out. This is... " he gestures with his head, trying to indicate all of Moriarty, lying there, "this is all I ever dreamed about, when I had the good dreams, the dreams in which you came back, miraculously unhurt. I knew it was impossible. But you always had a knack of making the impossible happen."

_He’d said it before he even realized it was a thought, voice barely-there and so different from before, yet so entirely Jim. “I love you.”_

 

Is there a limit to how many times your world can shatter in one night? Because Sebastian is pretty sure that that limit must have been reached now. He just stares at Jim, mouth open, unable to speak, to move. His heart is really thumping against his ribs now, demanding to be let out and jump at Jim Moriarty, the only man he's ever loved. That _he_ loved. He knew he loved Jim, he was utterly devoted to him, he would have died for him with a huge grin on his face, had imagined so many scenarios in which _he_ could have been the one dying on that rooftop instead of Jim. But Jim... Jim didn't love. He was a psychopath, a genius, who didn't concern himself with normal people. And that had been fine. But this Jim... This Jim who had come back tonight, and it must be a dream, fuck it, he must have dreamt the pain of the pinch; this Jim was a different one. He still looked the same, sounded the same, had the same irresistible smile, but... he had gained something in those two years.

Vulnerability. Sincerity.

 

_Sebastian is just staring at him, has gone silent, and Jim wonders if he just made the biggest fucking mistake. He doesn’t even know how to respond himself, because, truth be told, he doesn’t know why he just said that. It had come out as though it had been waiting, all of those years, the ones they spent together, fighting and killing and living side by side, and then the excruciating two that they’d been apart. He can’t read anything from Sebastian’s face and it’s eating him alive. The shock is the only thing written across Sebastian’s expression and it drives Jim mad. The thought enters his mind that maybe he miscalculated somehow. That maybe all the deductions that led him to this, to saying it with the surety that Sebastian will feel the same, were somehow, impossibly wrong. He still feels vulnerable, cut open, but he isn’t sure that he likes it anymore. He drops his eyes away. “Forget it, I— Fuck.” He grits his teeth, astounded at the prickle of tears he feels starting in the backs of his eyes._

_Damn Sebastian, damn him for making Jim feel this way, without his knowing, for so fucking long. “Forget it,” he mutters. “I don’t know why that— Just leave it.”_

 

Shit! Shit, his brain froze, god knows how long he's been just staring at Jim, blinking like a lunatic, and now Jim is insulted - "Jim," he says, taking Jim's jaw, turning his face up at him, "Jim." He waits until the other man opens his eyes and oh god, there are tears in them. His heart breaks. He has never, _never_ seen tears in Jim's eyes, not when he was shot in the leg, not when he'd been tortured by Mycroft Holmes, not when he woke up from a nightmare in a cold sweat. And now... he is crying... because of him?! "Jim. I love you. I love you. I am so sorry. I have always loved you. I should have. told you." Shit, he is crying too now. _Look at us. The two most dangerous men in London._ "I kept kicking myself for never telling you, thinking what if I had, would you still have shot yourself, could I have asked you... begged you not to..." His voice chokes. "I told your picture. The picture on my phone. Every night. I'd get drunk and tell you that I loved you and then fall asleep thinking what if I had told you..." his throat constricts, he can't talk any more.

 

_Jim lets himself be turned to look back up at Sebastian, because dammit, he should be able to face this. Even if the rejection shatters him. But then Sebastian is speaking and all Jim can do is listen to his sniper’s world falling apart around him for those two years. Between the words, Sebastian is telling him that impossibility, and Jim isn’t sure if he’s hearing it right. He’s a criminal mastermind, king of all crime in London and farther, murderous, untouchable... and Sebastian Moran loves him. Jim’s chest is suffocating him again, this time with something he’d gladly give in for, die for, if he had to._

_Sebastian’s words falter and Jim reaches up for him, smoothing back his hair. It’s the first time he’s ever shown anything like affection for another soul and it feels strange and unknown, but so fucking electrifying. Sentiment is a weakness. Sebastian is Jim Moriarty’s weakness. He doesn’t care. “Seb,” he murmurs, voice thick, but soft. “I didn’t know. If I had I—“ He breaks off. “I’m sorry.” Holy shit, this man is making him apologize again. He can’t handle the image of Sebastian, alone, confessing his love to a phone screen in the night and wondering miserably if he could have saved Jim. “Nothing meant anything to me,” he admits. “All my life. Everything, everyone, they were all pitifully boring next to what I could do. Except Sherlock, but he could only give me so much distraction. Same with the crimes, the web of people I created. Nothing but pointless fucking distractions. I thought I never felt anything unless it was sending a bullet through someone’s head. Then I met you. And you pissed me off.” He manages a half-grin then, rakish. “You were the only employee to talk back and make me want to kill you, but do your job so damn well that I couldn’t. I wasn’t supposed to care. I wasn’t supposed to feel. But when I faked my death, I realized I couldn’t come back to you after. But that wasn’t supposed to matter. Until I pulled the trigger and realized I was in love with you.”_

 

... that word again. That word that he could never speak, hardly even _think_ , until that day the bottom fell out of his world on a City rooftop. And... slightly different wording. 'in love with'. That was... you could love a brother, a best friend, a bodyguard even, maybe. But 'in love'... that was... unthinkable. James Moriarty in love. It was even more impossible than James Moriarty loving. Than James Moriarty apologizing. Than James Moriarty being alive. Tonight was a night of impossibles. But that was Jim. He often pulled off six impossible things before breakfast. And that grin. That lopsided grin that makes him look so young and impish. It makes Sebastian feel like a teenager, in love for the first time, his stomach a mass of butterflies fluttering madly, trying to find a way out. "I'm sorry boss, but you needed someone to take you down a peg or two," he deadpans. "You were such a fucking drama queen." He grins widely at the memory of him snarking at Jim for the first time and the _look_ on his face, shock and outrage warring. He'd been convinced his big mouth had finally been the death of him, when that grin had broken through, and that had been it, the beginning of an insane but intense partnership. He'd been convinced he would be dead at Jim's hands dozens of times, but somehow he'd always survived, he'd always let him get away with ... well, murder, obviously, but many things that others would have died for. He’d thought because he was unmissable. He realizes that indeed he had been unmissable. But in more ways than he'd expected. "It's... fuck Jim, I can't believe you didn't know. I worshipped the fucking ground you walked on. Just because I wasn't a fawning sycophant didn't mean I wasn't completely and utterly smitten with you. How could I not be?"

 

_“I’M the drama queen?” Jim asked teasingly. “You’re the one who shot a man for insulting me, remember?” That was probably one of his greater moments, actually. Jim remembers watching the man fall with a splatter of blood, delighted but vaguely surprised that Sebastian had acted the way he did. Jim had had to hide his foolish smile. Sebastian goes on and Jim’s eyes soften. It’s impossible not to lose that hard edge around Sebastian like this, when he says these things. He traces a scar at Sebastian’s shoulder with a fingertip. “I thought I saw it,” he says quietly. “But I convinced myself it was the same want to be the favourite that all of my men had. I didn’t think.... I’m not someone people love. I thought I saw what I wanted to see. I didn’t know you felt—something else, for me.” He huffs a laugh at his own foolishness. “I just knew I got it bad for my own sniper.”_

 

Sebastian snorts. "Fuck's sake, we're as bad as Holmes and Watson. And _you're_ supposed to be the fucking genius. I was hardly subtle. I carved your initials in countless bodies with my loved up mind. Besides, do you think anyone could put up with you and your moods for all those years if they weren't completely head over heels for you? You fucking locked me in a cupboard for an entire night for snoring! You dragged me to Paris and we spent four days crawling through sewers, I didn't even get to eat a croissant! You put me into more impossible situations than the SAS could have ever thought up and just expected me to deal, and shrugged when I questioned you! You fucked me using a guy's blood for lube! You... are utterly insane, and I fucking missed you so much..." He grabs Jim, holds him as close as he can, desperately.

 

_Oh yeah, he forgot about that one. Blood wasn’t the best for clean-up, but he did like how it tasted on Sebastian’s skin. Jim’s smiling like a fucking idiot, he can’t pretend he isn’t, hearing all their crazy antics together and never having known— never having let himself think—that they could be more than just a sniper and a crime lord working together. His smile goes crooked with amusement at Sebastian calling him insane, a playful glimmer in his eyes. Then Sebastian’s taking him into his arms, holding him close, and it’s like the world fits together for them. Jim throws his arms around him, fingers digging slightly into his back with the want to be as close as possible, erase every last breath of space between them. Nuzzling into Sebastian’s neck, he lets out a shaky breath. “Fuck, I missed you too, ‘bastian,” he mumbles into Sebastian’s skin. “‘m not letting anything take you from me again.” His grip tightens, a low possessive growl in his throat. “I’ll end anyone who tries.”_

 

"That's my job, boss. Anyone you want dead, you got it." As romantic phrases go, it's probably not quite in the top twenty, but it's Jim Moriarty, he'll appreciate it. He lifts his head, grins, again, to see him _here_ , on his sofa, and suddenly it's too much, he needs him, needs to feel him, all of him. He pounces on his boss, kisses greedily, wherever he can, but the back of the sofa is in the way, this is not working, this bloody sofa is too small. He gets off Jim, grabs him, lifts him bodily and carries him into the bedroom, throws him onto the bed, jumps on top of him, kissing him, then rolling over, so Jim's on top of him, stroking his arms down his back, that wonderful back, skinny, muscular, with the knife scar on the right side. Kisses his neck, his collar bone. Bites.

 

_To anyone else, it isn’t the most romantic of phrases, but the mere fact that Sebastian would kill anyone for him makes him shiver. The sight of Sebastian’s grin, that crooked grin that Jim hadn’t even known he missed this much, has his heartbeat stuttering. Then Sebastian’s suddenly kissing him, heated, wild, fire-on-skin kisses and he’s so desperate and impatient, and Jim loves it._

_Another mad laugh escapes him when Sebastian picks him up—there’s the intoxicating bend and flex of muscle under Jim’s hands on Sebastian’s shoulders, and god, he is so utterly drunk on him. Then they’re on a bed—Sebastian’s bed, Seb’s scent all around him, on him, mine mine mine—and he’s straddling Sebastian’s hips, hands on his back, finding all his scars, all the places no one else sees, and Jim knows right then that they can’t ever go back to how they used to be. Sebastian’s biting his collar bone and it hurts so good; a low, animal noise comes from the back of Jim’s throat and he grabs Sebastian by the hair, forces his head back to bare his neck. “Tiger wants to play rough, huh?” he purrs huskily, kissing just below Sebastian’s chin before running his tongue down the arch of his neck._

 

Oh god. Oh god yes. Sebastian comes undone at that phrase, that sensation. His hair in Jim's hand, forcing his head back, baring his neck to him, that feeling of vulnerability, of total surrender to Jim Moriarty, the most powerful man in London, the man he adores. He knows he's bigger, faster, stronger than Jim, but Jim just oozes raw _power_ , which thrills him, flicks a switch inside him that makes him completely powerless to resist. It would be as much use to try to stop a running freight train with his bare hands. He knows Jim owns him, always has, from the moment he was in his service, it's how he works - there is no such thing as an ex-employee of Moriarty's. But this ownership goes deeper, much deeper. He arches his head back further, giving himself up to Jim, wanting Jim to claim him again, any way he wants.

 

_Jim reaches the bottom of Sebastian’s neck, dips his tongue into the hollow between his collarbones. He can’t believe they’ve gone this long without touching like this. Sebastian’s tilting his head back for him and Jim feels a rush of possessiveness. Sebastian is HIS. His sniper, his colonel, his tiger. His second, his heart. He wants to come apart with him, make up for every moment that they weren’t together. Smirking devilishly, he kisses back up Sebastian’s neck, scraping his teeth harshly along his skin. When he reaches the place just beneath Sebastian’s ear, he bites hard enough to leave a mark. It’s visible there and he doesn’t care, wants everyone to know who Sebastian belongs to. Who Jim belongs to. Knowing the full effect it will have on Sebastian, Jim murmurs lowly into his ear, “I’m yours, Sebastian.”_

 

He feels dizzy, like he's floating, at the sensation of Jim kissing, licking his neck, the teeth scraping his neck. The sharp sensation of the bite draws him back into his body with a shock. He groans as he feels the teeth mark his skin. He'll have a bruise tomorrow - like he used to have. Like Jim used to have. It had always amused them to no end, seeing people's nervous looks at the bite marks, scratches, bruises in their necks, knowing that anyone who bruised Moriarty would be dead, but Sebastian continued to live on, year after year, until they whispered about him that he was the second most dangerous man in London, and people were as terrified of him as they were of Jim.

"And I'm yours, Jim. Mind, body, heart, and soul."

 

_Jim kisses over the newly formed bruise, then brushes his lips down to where he can feel Sebastian’s pulse beneath his jaw. It’s racing and even though he knew it would be, it sets him alight to feel it. He runs his tongue over it, then sinks his teeth in again, feeling as though he’s taken Sebastian’s pulse between his teeth, marked up his heart as much as his skin. God, he wants it too. He wants nail marks down his back, and bruises painted across his neck, his chest, everything. He wants to have Sebastian everywhere. “Fuck, I love you,” he says again, voice strangled with want and emotion._

 

Sebastian feels Jim's teeth on his jugular and for a moment he wants Jim to bite down, to drink his life blood, to lose himself completely inside him. Then Jim groans that he loves him and it is a physical sensation, the way his heart wrenches and aches, and he wants to be closer to Jim, needs to. He grabs his back, pulls him down on him, his mouth on his, moving down to Jim's neck, to mark him too, marking him as the man beloved by Sebastian Moran. He bites down, sucks his bite, hard, thinking of how incredibly sexy Jim looks with a bruise over his collar, smiling at people like nothing is the matter. "Jim... I love you Jim..." He can say it to the actual man, here, in this bed, where he's said the words to a bunch of pixels night after night. He claws at Jim's back, trying to pull him even closer.

 

_Sebastian’s teeth are sinking into his neck, sucking, and Jim can practically feel the bruise blooming in his skin. The thought of showing it off is thrilling and he moans, muffled into Sebastian’s shoulder. Hands are raking at his back and he arches into Seb in reply, pressing their hips together. He skims his hand across Sebastian’s collarbone, then drags his nails, hard, over his chest. Four lines appear, a branding red, over Sebastian’s heart. Jim thinks he’d love to have his name there._

 

Seb arches his back, groans at that. Jim showing his ownership. He loves that, has missed it so much, feeling the pain and ecstasy of Jim marking his territory. God, he loves this man. He can't bear them to be in two bodies, wishes they could melt together. He grasps at Jim's trousers, undoes his button and zip, pulls them down, feels Jim toe off his shoes, pushes them all the way off with his feet. He clasps his hands around Jim's brief-clad bottom. Still as amazingly sexy as two years ago.

 

_Jim can’t help but smirk, an eager slash of the mouth, when Sebastian starts pulling the rest of his clothes off. It’s like he never left, but all new at the same time. He adores it. Sebastian’s hands on his arse pull him closer and he keeps going, rocking his hips down into Sebastian’s with a lazy, purring moan. His fingers hook in the waistband of Sebastian’s trousers and he tugs pointedly. “Off,” he says sharply, with a hint of the steely tone he uses when he gives an order to kill._

 

That tone. Sebastian could not resist any order given in that tone, even if he wanted to. That tone goes straight from Jim's mouth to his muscles, without his brain having a say in proceedings. He claws at his fly, pulls off his trousers. He hadn't bothered to put on pants earlier, years ago, when he had just woken up and the world was still in black and white, and he'd thought he should go apologize to irate neighbours. Completely naked except for his dog tags, he embraces Jim again, enjoying the feeling of more of his body, so achingly familiar.

 

_Jim’s smirk widens, cruel, all devil, and he sets his fingers at Sebastian’s chin. Torturously slow, he runs his fingertips down the centre of his neck, his sternum. He lets his nails dig in enough to paint lines in their wake, blooming red across Sebastian’s skin. He reaches the hard muscle of his stomach, dips just below his navel, before teasingly skating off to the side, nails biting in around his hipbone. The first drops of blood well there, bright scarlet against the skin. Making it his goal to pull Sebastian apart, Jim pushes against the bed to slide down Sebastian’s body, ducking to close his mouth over the new marks in his hip. His teeth add pretty purple to the red welts and he works his way up along the path he’s made, running tongue and teeth up Sebastian’s centre until he’s at his neck again. Sure he has the sniper right where he wants him, Jim presses their mouths together, kissing him with a sudden wild ferocity, running his tongue along Sebastian’s teeth, biting into his bottom lip. He only gives pause to gasp once, into Sebastian’s mouth, “Seb.” The side of his mouth quirks up, sexy, and actor he is, he takes on a high breathy tone, desperate, as though he’s begging for mercy. “‘bastian,” he moans in that voice, kissing his tiger again. “Take me.” And then, pitched back down, all Moriarty: “Now.”_

 

Sebastian groans, and feels his consciousness leave his head and glide into his skin, following the trail of Jim's fingertips, his nails, drawing lines of liquid fire over his body, drawing him out, drawing him up, drawing him alive. He moans when he feels Jim's teeth on his hip, biting him, sucking the blood he'd drawn with his nails, sucking his life into himself, which is as it should be, because he doesn't have a life outside of Jim Moriarty, not anymore, if he ever had. He whimpers when the mouth makes its way back up the path his fingers have created, sees Jim appear in his field of vision. Jim. Oh god it is Jim. Jim all over his body, in his mind, in his heart, in his blood, Jim, it's always been Jim, he was fucking _made_ for Jim, the entire reason for his existence is and has always been Jim. They kiss, Jim's fierceness making him delirious. He looks up at his... boss, lover, owner, and sees that silly act, telling him to take him... and then he's Jim again, and that 'now' sends a shiver through his entire body, and he is galvanized into action, because this is perfect, it's what he needs, he needs to merge with Jim, be one body. He rolls Jim off him, reaches into the nightstand for the lube that's still there, discarded down the back behind stashes of weed, pills, empty bottles, and turns to Jim with fire in his eyes.

_Jim nearly laughs again at his tiger’s impatience, his quick response to obey. He really does have him on a leash and it feels exhilarating to give it a pull and reel him in. He stretches out across the mattress as Sebastian fishes a bottle of lube out of the bedside drawer, draping his arms up above his head lazily. He trails his fingertips idly over the marks Sebastian’s left at his neck, pressing into one to feel an addictive flash of pain. He wants to feel it for days. He doesn’t say a word when Sebastian turns back to him, doesn’t move to rid himself of the last of his clothing. Just meets his tiger’s hungry gaze and arches a brow as though to say, I’m waiting._

 

Say no more, boss. Anything you want, always. And how thoughtful of you to want exactly what I need right this moment. Sebastian reaches for Jim's briefs, pulls them down and off, and is on Jim in a heartbeat, kissing, biting, sucking his neck, jaw, mouth, chest, delirious with love, want, need, as he prepares his lover. He looks into the eyes, impossibly black with lust, desire, and yes, _love_ , an inconceivable concept to see in Moriarty's eyes, but there you go, it's undeniable now he knows. But it's still Jim, he's still an arrogant little fucker, and looks at him with that cocky smile, that makes him want to either kiss or punch it off, challenging him, and he realizes that Jim _needs_ this, as much as he does, he needs to be taken, to _feel_ , because if he hasn't felt anything in two years, then Jim hasn't either, because that is the way the world works, they are _nothing_ without each other, and together, they are omnipotent. He groans deeply as their bodies merge, as he melts into Jim, together, the intensity burning away the two years between them, burning away reality, the rest of the world, until nothing exists in the world but they two, James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran, one. Forever.


End file.
